


Braid

by icylook



Series: Vergil Surana [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icylook/pseuds/icylook
Summary: But, the fall’s colours are somewhat a novelty and the shades of leaves are enjoyable to look at. The crunch of them under his feet is oddly satisfying.





	Braid

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for prompt Leaves :D

Zevran has to admit, fall in Ferelden can be aesthetically pleasing.

When one ignores the increasing bite of chill in the air and the morning fogs, making everything sticky and damp. And the spiderwebs with mist on them, though they can look nice, water droplets gleaming in the sun. Charming, as long as Zevran wouldn't step into them and get a faceful of the web, clinging to his skin and hair and _everything._

Frosty air and cold fog. He has a feeling the amount of mud is escalating too, thanks to this small, misty-like rains. _Drizzles_, they call them. The rain finds every piece of skin, soaks into the clothes and seeps all the warmth. Yes, even summer had the unusual bite to it. The cold is present in every season in this country, it seems. Zevran makes himself shudder at the thought of winter.

But, the fall's colours are somewhat a novelty and the shades of leaves are enjoyable to look at. The crunch of them under his feet is oddly satisfying.

Alistair laughs at the dog diving into shallow piles of leaves under the trees, chasing squirrels with enthusiastic barks.

"That reminds me how I had to rake the leaves in monastery, all around the courtyard. And then when no one was looking, I would dive into them and hide for a bit." There's slightly wistful note in his voice. "Sometimes others joined and then it was a leaves fight. Was worth the later scolding." Alistair takes a deep breath, "Ah, the smell of fallen leaves is something."

"What's so fun in diving into pile of decomposing leaves?" Vergil's question sounds neutral, yet Zevran glances at him at the hidden undertone.

"What? They aren't decomposing, they're fresh," Alistair pauses, "Well as fresh as fallen leaves can be and, they're mostly dry. Haven't you ever tried-" He closes his mouth so fast there's an audible click of teeth. Vergil's face is carefully blank, but he doesn't say anything, single brow raised as in _'continue'_.

"Aah," Alistair's expression falls a little. "I suppose you haven't." He's silent for a moment, "You can try it now?"

Zevran chuckles quietly at the silent glare Vergil sends Alistair and how the man shrugs it off, carrying on their trek through the forest.

* * *

Evenings come earlier these days, though the constant shine of one of the two moons helps in adjusting to it. Nevertheless, Zevran isn't as bothered by the decreasing sunlight as their human companions are.

He already took care of his bath _(as much as hasty splash in freezing water with little soap can be called a proper bath)_, and curses himself at miscalculating the need for a cloak after he unintentionally made himself shiver.

As he nears Warden's tent he notices the soft glow of scattered mage lights, shadows dancing on the canvas with movement of small orbs. Zevran pauses in his steps to look at Vergil, clearly visible at the angle he has at the open tent.

He's sitting cross-legged, already wearing the dark shirt and leggins he usually wears to sleep. And as he seems busy with taking care of his long black hair, his motions gentle and practiced, the look on his face is one of a deep thought. There's a far away look in amber eyes, the greenish reflection catching with the play of the soft lights. He has his hair draped on his shoulder, slowly combing them with careful fingers, meticulously spreading the scented, watered down conditioner.

The sight briefly reminds him of other beautiful, lush and curly dark hair he got his hands on, often accompanied by a hearty laugh and wicked gleam of chestnut eyes and it makes his throat tighten for miserably uncomfortable moment of feeling the hollow despair rearing its ugly head and he blinks, shuddering at the thought or, was it the increasing chill in the air, mixed with smells of the fall's evening? Zevran shakes his head and steps forward.

There's an itch at his fingers now, an urge to touch and run them through the glossy strands.

"Need a hand?" He doesn't recognize his voice and swallows a cough to get rid of the rasp. He realizes he blurted the words as he sees how Vergil startles, looking at him with a glint of unmasked surprise in his eyes. Zevran's speechless himself, though he schools his expression to what he hopes is a friendly if not a bit coy one. Vergil's gaze holds his own for a moment longer before he tilts his head in invitation and a lazy smirk appears on his lips.

Zevran's offer of braiding Vergil's hair is met with a curious glance and quiet agreement, and he takes his time with smoothing the hair, first with his fingers then with a comb. No one says anything, beside Zevran's occasional word or two about his next move. The tension in Vergil's shoulders is slowly unwinding with every touch and gentle twist of the silky strands. When Zevran first sat at Vergil's back, silently thrilled to run his fingers through black strands, parting them gently in sections, as he already planned the way of handling _so much_ hair, he noticed Vergil's shoulders tighten. Pulling in, like waiting for a blow and Zevran recognized it instantly – Vergil really isn't fond of having someone at his back, not seeing what they're up to. So he quietly started talking about what he's doing and it seemed to be the right thing to do.

As he works, focusing in weaving the strands evenly, the tips of his fingers brush the delicate skin of Vergil's ears, then the sides of his neck and he's leaning into the subtle caress. Something warm blooms in Zevran's chest and a small smile curls at his lips.

"Are there leaves piles in Antiva, Zevran?" He's almost finished with the most complicated part of the braid and the quiet, almost whispered question has his fingers falter in their work.

Vergil's facing the opening of the tent, head slightly bowed but most likely watching what's happening near the fire. Alistair's sitting there, talking with Wynne. He seems to feel the weight of their combined gazes as he pauses and turns to glance at them, blinks as he's startled by their eyes on him and makes a show of shuddering with mouthed _'creepy'_. Still so easily surprised by the look of their eyes at night. Then he's back to his conversation.

There's a faint glint of green in _his_ eyes, something fleeting and not difficult to overlook.

"He's not as oblivious as he plays to be," Vergil murmurs with a soft sigh, as he stretches his arms.

Zevran hums, deftly tying the end of the braid with silk ribbon. "Better to ignore the implications yes? There were many children like him in the brothel, and later." He's watching avidly as Vergil runs his hands over his head, testing the braid under his fingers. "Same with the Circle."

"Oh?"

"More than you think." He pauses, "It's acceptable." Vergil looks at him over his shoulder with a playful smirk.

"Only _acceptable_?" Zevran raises on his knees when Vergil turns to him fully. "But I poured all of my heart into it!" He accents the fake distress with wiggle of his fingers, "See, I can barely move them now!"

There's an amused snort before Vergil catches his hand with his own and swiftly brings it to his mouth, tip of his tongue deliciously soft and moist at the pad of Zevran's finger. "Should I kiss them better?" He asks in low voice before he sucks more of it into his mouth and Zevran feels the familiar stirr of heat at the action. "What a generous offer," he purrs, crawling into Vergil's space, "Should we close the tent to spare the _sensitive_," he stresses the word, as he straddles Vergil's thighs, "senses of our companions?" Vergil's hands find their way under Zevran's shirt, blunt nails raking the skin at his sides with purpose and he leans into the touch with a gasp. "No one has to look in this direction," Vergil murmurs, nipping at the underside of his jaw and a low chuckle rumbles in Zevran's chest. "Indeed they don't."


End file.
